


And the mistletoe, with its white berries, hung up.

by emef



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mistletoe, UST, haunted bridge, totally fictional covered bridge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 12:09:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emef/pseuds/emef
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tale of Christmas in Sleepy Hollow, in the year 2013. Weary souls are finally able to rest, and Ichabod wins again in a skirmish with pre-packaged hot chocolate.</p><p>Includes feelings about Christmas, gender roles, bad dreams, and romance. And mistletoe. Wacky, enchanted mistletoe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the mistletoe, with its white berries, hung up.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [acalmingcupoftea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acalmingcupoftea/gifts).



As I heard the waves rushing along the sides of the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were raging round this floating prison, seeking for his prey; the mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give him entrance. The darkness became stifling, like a cloth covering my eyes and my mouth, and I began to be afraid. I felt the ship move and yet could not see light through the porthole. I heard the waves crashing and yet could not make any sound of my own. The darkness strangled me. I coughed, and I fought…

And I awoke.

*

Christmas day, 2013  
Sleepy Hollow, NY

Once upon a time, in a country not so far away, there lived a police Lieutenant by the name of Abbie Mills, in a town by the name of Sleepy Hollow. Lieutenant Mills was a young person of action and valour, and she had long defended her town against thieves and villains. This town was prey to mystical powers, having lately been attacked by one of the Headless Horsemen of the apocalypse. It was now the site of countless ghosts and goblins, haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as the Headless Horseman had once been known.

Lieutenant Mills was assisted by me, a professor of history called Ichabod Crane. I had lately been resurrected after an unnatural sleep of some two and a half centuries, and commissioned to pursue the Horseman. Since my resurrection, there have been mysterious deaths, including that of Lieutenant Mills’s mentor, Sheriff August Corbin. There have also been communications from my wife, Katrina Crane, who appears to be neither dead nor alive. Wherever she is, lost between the worlds, she is important and has already been crucial in preventing the other three Horsemen from being summoned. I do not know if she and I will ever be with each other again.

On the night my tale begins, the night-mare had made my dreams the scene of her gambols. I twisted and turned in my bed, and was awoken from the night-mare’s visit with a gasp and shout. I had been dreaming of the Atlantic Ocean, for Christmas was nearly upon us in Sleepy Hollow, and with it, memories of the past. I had once spent the Christmas in a ship, you see, and a tempest shook our vessel. Many of us feared for our lives.

Oddly enough, however, my dream was not one of fear. My dream was one of loneliness. For, on the day of our departure, my fellow passengers and I had been met on the pier by numerous well-wishers. Young persons bidding their sweethearts goodbye; friends wishing “bon voyage,” families offering tearful farewells. So many greetings and farewells. So many words and warmth of feeling. Oh, dear reader, we tell our kin that we love them in so many ways. We say the three little words, but we also say, “be well,” “take care,” or “dress well for your journey, for the weather is inclement.” We say, “I will miss you.” We say, “be careful.”

In my dreams, storms and darkness threatened me, but the truly frightening thing was that, before my trip, if anyone had said they would miss me, I could no longer remember. If no one thinks of me, am I still real? If I do not think of my close ones, do they still exist? I did not like the cold ocean water, for I knew not how to swim, but I was more frightened of being lost.

Sleep returned, I dreamed again of the voyage. It was Christmas day, and we had reached land. Upon the harbour, all now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquaintances - the greetings of friends - the consultations of men of business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no friends to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the New World, and was a stranger in the land.

Upon the docks, there was a young couple, hand in hand. My dream spiralled into brooding. I clutched at my bedsheets.

I profess not to know how a person’s heart is wooed and won. To me it has always been a matter of riddle and admiration. I am a man of action, and like many of my temperament, I do not hesitate to engage in physical exertion as well as intellectual pursuits. In fact, I enjoy it. I enjoy the pounding of the heart, the sweating of the brow, the power of the human body. But the exploits required of one whilst courting are unfathomable. For someone of my sex, courting someone is to take action. It is to respond to infinitely subtle gestures and suggestions with concrete deeds. A man in love cannot simply wait; his lot is to engage. But to engage does not entail risks of bodily harm - it entails risks of shame and ridicule. With this did the night-mare haunt my sleep.

 

*

A fine day, however, with a tranquil sky and a favouring breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is impossible to resist the gladdening influence of fine weather. Sunlight dispels gloom and brings life into the darkest corner of the mind.

The day was December 24th; a final day of holiday preparations for many citizens. The Lieutenant and I, however, planned to further unravel the mystery surrounding the Headless Horseman. She advised that we were experiencing a “slow week,” and requested we revisit my grave - that is, the cavern in which my wife had hidden me these past centuries - and its surroundings. I protested that it would be covered in a layer of snow, but Lieutenant Mills would not be deterred.

Her arrival was to be expected one hour after daybreak. I busied myself with a breakfast of bread and something the Lieutenant calls “hot chocolate.” She kindly provisioned me with it. It bears little resemblance to the chocolate I enjoyed as a boy; it is prepared by opening a small packet, full of a finely crushed substance which is dissolved into heated water. The resulting beverage is then garnished with white, spongy lumps known as “marshmallows.” It tastes of sugar. I often have as many as three “hot chocolates” in a twenty-four-hour period.

*

Soon after I broke my fast, Lieutenant Mills appeared. She and I exchanged the habitual pleasantries. And on this bright, crisp, Christmas Eve morning, we ventured through the forest along the Pocantico River.

“I suppose it would be too much to hope for signs pointing the way,” Lieutenant Mills said.

“I assure you, Lieutenant, we are on the correct path.”

“Nah, I meant - signs pointing towards, like, evil clues. ‘Find the horsemen of the apocalypse this way,’ or ‘prevent the end of the world through here.’ You know?”

“I should hardly think the forces of evil so foolish as to… Oh.” I became cognizant of my mistake. “You are making droll remarks.”

Lieutenant Mills smiled at me as she reached up towards the branches of an oak tree. Greenery was growing amongst the branches which were otherwise bare of leaves. “What are those things?” She asked. “Tangled up in the trees like that?”

“Mistletoe, Lieutenant.”

She frowned. “Huh. And they grow inside other trees.”

“They are a parasitic species.”

“Creepy.”

“They are better observed in winter, because unlike the trees it attaches itself to, it is an evergreen.”

“Still creepy.”

“Parasitic species do inspire a certain revulsion.”

We walked in silence for some time. I thought of Christmas. Of all the old festivals, that of Christmas awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. Lieutenant Mills had told me, only a few weeks before, that this was “the point” of the holiday. And she had said: _you see what you have now, and you embrace what’s in front of you_.

“When I was a boy, in England, the young men had the privilege of kissing the girls under the mistletoe, plucking each time a berry from the bush. When the berries were all plucked, the privilege ceased.”

Lieutenant Mills walked ahead. “So the boys kissing the girls, not the other way around, huh?”

“Such was the custom.”

“Hm.”

The snow crunched beneath our feet. Soon, we heard rushing water, and Lieutenant Mills quickened her pace. Up ahead, there was a covered bridge spanning the river.

“What the hell,” said Lieutenant Mills.

It was a timber-truss bridge, completely enclosed (except for the approaches) and appeared to be made of oak. It was rather incongruous, seeing as there was no road. Perhaps it had been abandoned long ago.

“Crane, was there a bridge the last time you were here?”

“I… do not recall, Lieutenant.”

“Know any legends about haunted bridges?

“I have been told many a tale of haunted bridges, though I do not recall one of bridges appearing where previously there were none.”

“Right.”

“Let us investigate,” I said, approaching the bridge.

“Be careful, Crane,” Lieutenant Mills warned.

We both walked into the bridge. It appeared innocuous. But when we reached the middle point, I suddenly found that I was wholly incapable of movement. And then the bridge collapsed.

*

To my great shame, I am unable to give an intelligible account of the events that followed. I must therefore cede this part of my tale of Lieutenant Mills.

*

Long story short: the bridge didn’t collapse. As far as I could tell, the soil under the western side disaggregated and one end of the bridge ended up floating in the water. But the bridge wasn't high above the water, so basically the floor was mildly crooked. It wasn't dangerous. But _Crane_. He was suddenly in some kind of trance. I didn’t know it then, but he doesn’t know how to swim. He's afraid of water. But it wasn’t just the phobia - he seemed to be trapped in a sort of forcefield. I could move in and out of the bridge, but Crane couldn’t.

I had no idea what was going on. My first thought was that his wife’s coven had set some kind of trap. But why was _I_ was just fine while Crane couldn’t move? I tried to think where to get help. Who could I have called, though? I don’t know how to give directions without a street address, and I didn’t think we had time to wait for backup, anyway.

Crane was babbling about water and shipwrecks - and something about darkness closing over him. It didn’t make any sense; the sunlight wasn’t making it all the way into the bridge, but it wasn’t dark. I thought he was possessed. And I thought we were _really_ in trouble now, because I don’t have magical powers. What’s the spell to exorcise evil spirits? How do you google ‘my friend is in a haunted bridge and I think he’s possessed, now what do I do’? He couldn't move, and I was powerless to help him. And without quite realizing what I was doing, I hugged him. This guy, I swear... His life sucks enough without magical traps randomly terrifying him out of his mind.

“It roars, it roars,” he was groaning. “Like Death raging ‘round.”

The river flowed around us, and it did make a roaring sound. I waited for it to rise, for creepy water creatures to come out of it. Witches, golems, whatever it is that could haunt covered bridges. The ghost of covered bridges past.

But the water rose really slowly, and the other side of the bridge seemed firmly attached. Sunlight shone in through the east-facing opening of the bridge. Suddenly I thought: what if Crane wasn’t possessed? What if he was just panicking?

“Oh for… Crane, if you aren’t possessed, I’m gonna kick your ass” I said, and rolled my eyes.

That’s when I saw something green and white dangling from the ceiling. A bit of...

"What the fuck."

I reached up, and grabbed Crane’s shoulders. He’s a skinny guy, but he's tall, and I was basically plastered up against him. “Crane, listen to me. Listen.” He didn't even blink. " _Damnit_ , Crane!" I put my hands on either side of his face. “Crane. Look up above you. What do you see there?”

“I cannot see - I cannot see - it is a cloth, it is like a cloth over my eyes…” he rambled.

But I didn’t need him to tell me. It was mistletoe. It wasn’t even that high up. I don’t know why we didn’t notice it before. It was mistletoe, and there was only one berry remaining. I didn’t think before acting. I kissed Crane. I kissed him and then felt his breath, and the cold tip of his nose, on my cheek; his beard under my fingers. And then I reached up above his head, and plucked the berry.

*

When I became able, once again, to reconnoitre our surroundings, we were on the riverbank. Lieutenant Mills was pulling me. My head was woolly; I was discombobulated. The sunlight shone into my eyes and the ground was crooked under my feet. Lieutenant Mills’s arm encircled me, and she held one of my hands in her own. 

“What…” I groaned, trying to get my bearings. I looked around. There was movement, on a nearby snowbank.

“Lieutenant?”

“Crane, I swear to God - “

“Lieutenant,” I told her again. “Look.”

On the riverbank, there was a boy. A young man, rather. He was sitting in a snowbank, and wore clothing rather like my own. It was as though he had materialized from the ether. But we knew, somehow, not to fear him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It wasn’t meant for you.”

It was such a strange utterance, and yet he spoke it significantly. He gestured for us to sit with him in the snow. And he told us a tale. Hundreds of years ago, he told us, he had met a girl. “The cleverest, and the most kind. There were none like her." Lieutenant Mills and I only mutely nodded. "There were none like her, and gladly would I have wooed her, had I only been certain of her regard. But I had no one to counsel me; no way to…”

The young man told us that he hadn't known if his advances would be welcome, and had hesitated to court his beloved. But then, that Christmas, he had noticed the housemaids, trapped by the stable-boys under the mistletoe. And then, an idea began to blossom…

“The winter solstice has always been a time of pagan rituals, you know. My devout aunts may speak of Christ’s birth, but the Yule logs and gift-giving are no Christian symbols. These are Saturnalian customs. The winter solstice has long been a festival for quaint humours, burlesque pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth and good-fellowship. When I was a child, Christmas seemed to throw open every door, and unlock every heart. It brought the peasant and the peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm generous glow of joy and kindness. And so I thought - why not suspend these antiquated and confining social customs. which force men and women into radically different roles, for the twelve days of Christmas? Why not reverse the roles beneath the mistletoe?”

Lieutenant Mills and I nodded, comprehension dawning.

“You did something to that mistletoe,” said Lieutenant Mills.

“Yes, I did,” he answered, suddenly dejected.

“And?”

“And I knew not... I was inexperienced, and it… the new varietal trapped all menfolk who walked below it, whether alone or with other people. Utterly trapped. They could not move. The mistletoe needed for someone else to free them with a kiss. But it grew all through these woods, and gentlemen occasionally found themselves trapped below trees, unable to escape. No one even knew they were there. Some of them died of cold. And one of them… one of them was in the bridge when the ground collapsed. It was springtime, the river overflowing... He drowned, unable to free himself.”

Lieutenant Mills looked up at me then. Together, we looked towards the bridge. What a terrible, terrible way to die. When we looked back at the young man, his appearance had changed. He was becoming translucent, as though fading away, back into the ether. Though he looked at us very keenly.

“Thank you,” he said, vehemently. “Thank you for plucking the last berry.”

We found ourselves lost for words.

“They are all gone now. I may rest in peace,” he said, as he faded away completely.

*

And that was the tale of Christmas in Sleepy Hollow, in the year 2013. Not a golem to be seen; not a horseman was summoned; not an abomination was incarnated. It was a fine day, with a tranquil sky and a favouring breeze.

As for Lieutenant Mills and I, we resolved to set aside the battle against the apocalypse for the remaining hours of the day. A weary soul was finally going to be able to rest, and so, we decided, would we.

“You know what, Crane? Let’s fight the forces of evil tomorrow,” she said, as we strolled towards my abode. "For now, let's go home."

“Lieutenant?” I queried.

“Yeah?”

“Would you care to join me for some hot chocolate?”

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand thanks to charloween for coming up with the mistletoe theme, as well as the Ichabod-versus-instant-hot chocolate idea.
> 
> Thanks to merisunshine36 for beta.
> 
> Thanks to enemyofperfect for everything.
> 
> All remaining typos are my own. Some edits after posting.
> 
> Title from "Christmas Eve" by Washington Irving.
> 
> Several lines are taken from The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent., by Washington Irving:
> 
> “As I heard the waves rushing along the sides of the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were raging round this floating prison, seeking for his prey; the mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give him entrance.”
> 
> “the night-mare, with her whole nine fold, seems to make it the favourite scene of her gambols.”
> 
> “All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquaintances - the greetings of friends - the consultations of men of business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no friends to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land of my forefathers, but felt that I was a stranger in the land.”
> 
> “marvellous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or Galloping Hessian of the Hollow.”
> 
> “The mistletoe is still hung up in farmhouses and kitchens at Christmas, and the young men have the privilege of kissing the girls under it, plucking each time a berry from the bush. When the berries are all plucked, the privilege ceases.”
> 
> "I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and admiration."
> 
> Thanks to acalmingcupoftea for the assignment; I really enjoyed the opportunity to read Washington Irving <3


End file.
